


The Man Who Ran

by Seawise_Giant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angels, Blood, Demons, M/M, ghost!stiles, magic!Lydia, tangible ghosts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:19:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seawise_Giant/pseuds/Seawise_Giant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stiles remembered that he didn't want to die. So he ran."<br/>--</p><p>The Alpha Pack eats Stiles right up (literally) on his mad (sad) sprint to the Hale House. The pack was waiting for him there, traps all set and bodies all shifted, but when he doesn't show up on time they dash out to rescue him. The first chapter starts off after they find his corpse (ruined remains).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Stiles remembered that he didn't want to die. So he ran.

**

He ran and ran and ran, planted down struggling strides as fast as his lanky legs could manage. But he was still human, not quick nor graceful enough, ankles threatening to bend over fierce dips and corrupted tree roots. They had bitten at the bulge of bone there, harsh cackles rising when he tried to hasten the thundering of his feet. He knew they were teasing him, and there were too many to try to outsmart--any sharp turn or delve into a nearby hiding spot would just kill him all the sooner. So Stiles ran and ran and ran as his gasps for breath became sobs. All he needed to do was keep them entertained, endure it all, lead them to the Hale House where the traps would be sprung and all would work out just as planned.

He admitted to himself that he probably wouldn't make it--but it would help the others and that's all he was meant to do. If it could protect his father, his pack, then Stiles would give his life a thousand times more.

He was still only human, and the buildup of exhaustion in his calves and thighs caused them to give with each additional step, until he was crashing downwards. Palms managed to catch on ground and stop his descent before his face bashed into a tangle of roots, but his then sluggish legs couldn't throw themselves up fast enough. Thus, his belly landed on the last curvature of the desperate roots, the unforgiving wood forcing his lungs to expel the last of his air. With the wind knocked out of him, he could only be left to writhe and gasp, feeling the panic attack constrict his airways as yapping erupted around him. Footfalls could be heard, snarls aimed at each other as they got too close. The head Alpha watched him suffocate.

\--

When the Pack descended on him, Stiles squeezed his eyes shut over his tears and let them. 


	2. Chapter 2

Jackson and Lydia were the first to find him. Saw the spilled organs, the pools of blood that seemed inhuman in amount. They saw how his chest cavity had been opened up, emptied, and based on the fur caught on jagged bone, rolled in. Jackson gagged, overwhelmed by the scent of it, while Lydia immediately tucked herself against him, shielding her eyes from the sight.

Her body stay stiff as Jackson let out a strangled alert call, born as a mournful shout and dying as one after cresting as a howl. To which Derek arrived soon after, following the source of the sound's waves. Jackson heard him coming before Lydia and turned to face his Alpha, arms secure around the noiseless woman. He whined wordlessly in reply to Derek, warning him of the severity of the scene, before burying both face and hand in blonde curls.

The large, humanoid wolf that came sprinting into the area slid over bloodied leaves that kicked up beneath powerful limbs, forcing him to collapse onto his side. Loud whines and whimpers bubbled from the creature's onyx throat as it immediately recovered and crawled over to the corpse--though it felt wrong to describe something as decimated and hollow as it by such a name--before proceeding to lap at the untouched face, cleaning it of the red stain.

Danny was next to appear, closer than Derek but not nearly as fast. He looked confused, startled, new to the whole werewolf thing--his first instinct was to turn tail and run, but once he saw Stiles' face he froze, gagged, sunk to his knees, tried not to vomit.

Scott's baying was the loudest when he arrived with a winded Allison and Isaac, who swerved and dove to a retching Danny. For a moment, the girl stood there, trying to catch her breath though her body refused to. Scott, too busy filling the space beside Derek, could not join her and thus she was left to seek comfort elsewhere, shifting closer to Jackson and Lydia as she kept her eyes anywhere but the body. It would solidify the whole thing, seeing her friend's eyes, and she wanted to stave off that section of reality until her own body could afford to recognize it. She couldn't tell if her hiccuped gulps for air were triggered by the full run Scott had her doing for too long, or if they were because of the situation.

(She knew it was the latter's fault.)

And no one intervened when Scott got too close to Stiles' face, brushing shoulders with the distraught Alpha who inwardly grieved pack, pack, pack, causing a bit of a skirmish. The Beta and he brawled, both staking claim over the boy, but as soon as Derek heard the yelp sounded in reply to the blow across the other's sternum, he eased. The noise was that of begging, more emotional instability than physical discomfort.

Derek allowed Scott to cradle the limp head out of pity, snarling when the naive 'wolf lifted too far and caused an avalanche of bones.

When Erica and Boyd arrived, no one moved, no one looked at them. They entered the clearing, looking bruised and remorseful and—and downright broken when they saw what was left of Stiles.

“I’m so sorry,” Erica wailed, hands clutching at Boyd. “If we hadn’t—if we had stayed—” Her cries tipped into hysteric, burrowing against Boyd like he was going to be able to hold her together. His arms tightened like he believed he could, the muscles in his jaw moving as he clenched it and swallowed, eyes seeking out Derek.

Derek didn’t raise his gaze to meet the stare he could feel, instead keeping it shifting between the cut of ribs and the ground between his paws.

\--

"We need to go," Allison said, when they all settled and Scott was just a puffy-eyed form who cradled his friend's skull, protective eyeing having ceased. Derek was human now, but even if he had been wolf, the young Argent would have understood his pointed glare. "Find help. The Alphas are gone, they--they must know. They stopped right outside the trap."

There's a far too hushed quiet, in which they think that Stiles would have spoken and filled the spans with nervous banter. Lydia recovers first, shoving away from Jackson with a noise.

"Deaton and your father. I have to go to Deaton, he’ll—he can help me. You guys need to see the Ar—Derek, stop that. You're sitting next to..." Her tongue slid out to wet red lips, eyes stuttering over blinks. "This." She waved at the corpse. "And you're not going to do everything you can to get them back?"

Derek's bristling eased with a loud exhale, fingers cracking as he released Stiles' broken hands. "We don't know if Stiles just couldn't make it. We don't know if they know."

Ever defiant, Jackson's eyes flashed, albeit a bit fearfully. "And if they do? Are we going to risk it?"

This--Derek really didn't want to meander about with Christ Argent. Who's to say the man wouldn't put him down for allowing Stiles to be killed? But now that the glue was gone, they'd need more assistance from Deaton and, apparently, the Argents as well.

He feels, instinctually, as if he should not give in to his Beta's demands. That he should whip them down and assert his dominance until they understand where he was coming from. Yet, the human part of him knows it would be beneficial to all of their survivals to permit the hunters to help, so he nodded grimly, and...stood.

No one would find the body this deep, so Derek declares to leave it until later. A few complaints began to rise before he snarled out, "That's not him anymore. What happens above ground will happen under it."

He doesn't want to think about how the Sheriff will react.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris knows they're fucked, Deaton knows Lydia will stop at nothing but tries to stop her anyway, and Stiles knows that he doesn't wanna be where he is.

When Derek and the rest arrived--excluding Lydia, Jackson, Danny, and Isaac--Chris' face fell from itself aggressive form and his gun lowered. He could read discord in Erica's hunched form, the red stain across Scott's front, how they all pressed together in as close of a group as they could manage. A bright edge of concern sparked in his eyes when he spied his daughter wedged between Derek's side and Scott's arms. He raised his gaze to question Derek, only to find a grim expression that somehow managed to read of regretful resignation and murderous determination.

"Dad," Allison paused and pressed her lips together, a limber line accompanied by the tremble of her chin. "We need your help. Please."

He scowled at Derek and his crew, the grip on his gun not once easing as one arm reached and parted the thin crowd of tense teens, fishing Allison out. She shuffled forward with a squeeze to Scott's torso, swallowing to stifle her emotions.

"Wait out here." Chris commanded, moving to close the door but stopping when he sees Derek flinch forward and sputter out:

"Take--take the others inside. I'll wait out here," Chris felt dread double where it was sitting on his bones like crows on a line. "Just take them in. It's not safe out here. I can't lose anyone else."

" _Else?_ " He echoed, and there the talons were, sinking into his skeleton and holding on tight. Derek didn't shrink away at the disbelieving tone, though the younger ones did, huddling closer and appearing more like motherless kittens in the rain than creatures capable of killing. Was it the blonde? Or--

"They got..." The Alpha growled out in reply, eyes bursting with a glowing color that made Chris raise his gun a little more.

"Stiles." Allison finished for him with a wobbly voice, drawing her father's attention to how she was ushering her friends in. Derek stepped away and Chris, well.

He stepped out, extended an arm and pressed a hand between Derek's shoulder blades to roughly guide him inside. "Who got Stiles? Or _what_ got Stiles?"

"Alphas."

Chris lifted up his weapon and checked the ammunition.

\--

Deaton pressed fingers over his eyes, rubbing the eyelids and then pinching the bridge of his nose. "God... Poor kid."

Surprisingly, Jackson was the one to let out a croaked 'yeah' while Isaac kept a comforting arm on Danny's back, fingertips bearing down on the surface between the newest's shoulders. Lydia hurriedly flipped through books, undeterred by how her quick page-flipping ripped some of the edges. Deaton didn't comment on it, though he eyed her for a moment.

Instead, he dropped his voice in pitch and said, "You know what I said last time."

Lydia tossed a book to the floor, the toe of her shoe keeping the page as she twisted her torso and grabbed another, far thinner text. She bit her lip and wrinkled her nose, thumbing through without bothering to open the book fully. "I know _exactly_ what you said, Deaton, and I am choosing to ignore it."

The vet just moved to the two boys huddling in the corner of the room, asking them questions about their well-being and praising Danny for his control, even though the werewolf was having a sort of blockage in shifting anything more than his eyes, which happened to be the bright color. Deaton catalogued that, took note of how hidden his wolfsbane was just in case, and continued right on without facing Lydia.

"I know you want Stiles back, but you have to realize summoning him back can take a turn for the worse. What if he comes back to his body? Do you realize how much that will hurt him?"

"There," The man was surprised by how she looked so young then, pausing and meeting his analytical stare with an emotion he couldn't quite place. "Is no body to return to."

He understood the proceeding inhale, so slight in size that he wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't caught Jackson's movement out of the side of his eye, the boy's gaze snapping back up to his mate's. Both Jackson and Deaton knew the expression that bloomed afterwards far too well.

\--

"Mom... I don't want to be here." Stiles asserted once the angel tacking off names on the fingers of his hands turned to gather up yet another dead relative. Apparently Stiles' mother had more of a family than she led on, with all the others that kept stepping down stairs from no where that somehow led to where Stiles stood--the center of his childhood home, that is.

"Well, that's good, 'cause I don't want you here either." The playful tone played out on her face, in the smile-induced wrinkles at the corners of her tear-brimmed eyes, the quivering stretch of lips. "In fact, go away."

Stiles huffed out a laugh at his mom, feeling it hit him that he was _there_ \--with his dead family members in some glow-y version of where he grew up. It was too perfect in that there wasn't the stain from that one time he thought it'd be cool to run around as he was delivering his father's coffee (he was lucky he didn't burn himself with it), in that the house didn't have the crack in the wall from when he was throwing a temper tantrum and rammed his tiny heel into the wall while on his back.

"I'm not gonna be able to help them anymore?" His dad, Derek, Scott, Lydia, the pack. Fuck, his _dad_. His mother moved closer to him, touch tender on his face and eyes soft. She wasn't grinning anymore, having given up on the playing when she saw a look of despair cross her son's face.

"Oh, honey," was all she could offer, guiding him to lean his face against her shoulder. He choked on a curl of charcoal hair when he gasped, body readying for the shitstorm that comes with uncontrolled sobbing. Another gasp, and he was choking on something else, something different, something that made him panic because that was definitely _blood_.

And his mother must have exploded or melted around him, because Stiles was enveloped in blood, smothered by it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to edit the tags, so keep an eye out for that. Also, I'm taking so many liberties with this angel/demon/Heaven/Hell stuff it's nearly painful. Sorry for that. (kiss)


	4. Chapter 4

Chris was sitting on his couch, trying to ignore the way Derek paced at the room's window, eyes locked outside. The others paid no attention to the growling they could hear, too busy explaining the situation with the Alphas and how they'd come into town and terrorized them all before sending back the battered forms of Erica and Boyd—Chris felt like they were pointedly avoiding one crucial aspect. The _now_ , what was _going_ to happen.

"So you don't know where they took Stiles?" He asked, scratching at his jaw as he thought over people he could contact, the weapons he would need to secure, the poisons to obtain.

Scott stuttered mid-sentence, choking on his words while throwing in a gag, which wasn't much of a loss considering how he'd been babbling on and on about how they'd set up traps and were actually prepared for the first head-to-head conflict with another pack. The way the tone kept drifting higher as he continued just told Chris that he was still a mass of tumbling emotions when it came to Stiles' capture—so then why was he avoiding it? Did they fail once at getting him back already?

"He—they didn't—they didn't _take_ him. They killed him."

"You...," Chris stood abruptly, his pace opposing Derek's. "Why didn't you tell me? You said they 'got' him!" There was a moment's pause, enough in its amount of time for a few of them to open their mouths and inhale to answer, but by then the man was rushing to speak again. "Why didn't you tell me about the pack sooner? How the hell are you going to cover this up? What are you going to tell the sheriff?" If that had been his daughter, he'd...

It probably almost was. He hadn't been informed, and his family had been endangered for all that time? He and his ties could have handled the Alpha pack before it got this far.

He let out a heavy sigh, though it did nothing to make him feel better. He tried once more with it, digging the ball of his palm into one of his eyes. When he risked a glance back, a glower controlling on his face, he found bright red eyes fixated on him.

"We'll handle it. And, if you want," the words rolled slowly, like they were too thick to bubble up from his throat and the oldest werewolf had to coax them out, "you'll help us kill the Alpha pack. Because we need all the help we can get."

"I would have gone after them even if you hadn't asked."

In fact, Chris had half the mind to lock Derek and his little pack up right then and there. He would have if he had all the supplies to hold the lot of them, as well as the emotional resolve tell the Sheriff what was going on. He supposed that and the loss of a friend was punishment enough, though one wrong step and Chris would be forced to deal with them.

\--

Derek hurried his rag-tag team out, arms wide and forcing them to leave as his head twists, peering over his shoulder to give the Argent one last look. Though the man was on the phone, making his calls, he met the stare and nodded once.

It took a total of half a block—granted they took their time, on edge and on the lookout for bright red burning through the foliage they themselves crept through—for a phone call to come in. Scott started at it and nearly hollered in his freight, hand shooting down to his pocket to hush the trill of his cellphone.

“Jesus, Deaton?” Derek’s brow shot up in question, stepping forward as confusion made the pup’s face blank. The distinctly female voice coming through the speaker alerted them to the fact that wasn’t Deaton, which left the Alpha panicking for a moment, thinking the caller an enemy. The way the tense line of Scott’s shoulders sunk soothed the entire pack but did nothing to stop Derek from snatching the phone away upon hearing the slurred static of the word “Sheriff.”

“What was that?”

“I’m at the Sheriff’s, I need you guys here for this.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck. Goddammit, Lydia—“Did you tell him?”

“Yeah, I did. He sort of needs to know.”

The way she delayed for Derek to speak seemed like a challenge—one that he wasn’t game for at the moment, so he let himself sound resigned, "Why didn't you wait for us?" 

“I have a frame of time to work with, and I wouldn’t have asked you guys to come if I didn’t need you here this instant. We’ll have this chat later, after I’ve brought Stiles back.” A little jingle signaled the end of the call.

Passing back the phone, Derek turned and bolted for Stiles’ house, knowing the others were right in tow.

\--

Spilled blood and a speedy beating made the pack slow, whining inquisitively to their head and circling the house anxiously. They’d have stood out there for a while longer had Lydia not burst out the front door and whistled them inside, stomping her foot to intimidate them into haste.

“If you don’t get your asses in here, it’s not going to work!” She called, practically shoving Derek—the last one in—through the door. Scott stilled upon stumbling deeper into the house, shock sitting around him like burnt air, before he gathered himself back and rushed to the Sheriff’s side, who sat beside a white smear of cloth on the floor. With his mouth wide, he gently grabbed his best friend’s father—ignoring the puffiness of his eyes and focusing on the gauze wrapped around his arm.

“Lydia! _What did you do?_ ” He snarled, gaping still as he tried to discreetly sap away some of the pain. The rest of the pack was at a different vantage point and saw the way the Sheriff tensed, his uninjured hand settling on his gun.

Derek growled a little at that, the noise rattling more in his diaphragm than in outward waves but Erica—filling a corner with Boyd—zeroed in on him anyway. 

“What do you need?” He finally grinds out after tearing away from Scott and the Sheriff to face Lydia, overriding the question that Lydia seemed determined to ignore. 

“I need you guys to lend me some power. I need you to focus your pain thing on—” Lydia motions to the middle of the floor, to the white sheet, before peeling it away. “—this.”

Underneath the fabric lay a bundle of sticks, tied together with roots and long stems of flowers, with mud smeared over the middle and the top half. Stains of red lay among the mud, coagulating in the marks made in the drying dirt. The runes under it spread farther than the torso-sized bunch of branches, even a few smaller ones on the outskirts.

\--

“Mom?” Stiles whispered, body completely rigid. A chill was settling in his bones, a gag constricting his throat. He couldn’t see past the red in his eyes, but he felt the dark that wisped around him and pressed into his pores.

“You’re being called back. I’ll be there when you get there, don’t freak out—”

And even as her voice faded, Stiles felt the calm settle back into his bones because at least she didn’t spontaneously shatter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was going to be a cow involved, but I decided against it--thus the change in tags. Again. And sorry for how late it is—Spring Break came! But it's basically done now, today's my last day off for it. (I'm actually supposed to be writing something for Physics, but, shh.)


End file.
